


And All The Devils Are Here

by bemusedlybespectacled (ardentintoxication)



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo [2013] [5]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nobody Expects The Spanish Inquisition, Torture, Waterboarding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardentintoxication/pseuds/bemusedlybespectacled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion to "Hell Is Empty." Stands alone, but makes more sense if you read that one first. </p><p>Aziraphale is taken in by the Inquisition for witchcraft and finds help from an unexpected source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And All The Devils Are Here

It was worth it, he tells himself. Señorita Antonia is a lovely girl, kind and sweet and devout. She doesn't deserve to die at sixteen from a common accident. She doesn't deserve to die at the hands of men who mistook miracles for witchcraft. It was worth the small “slip-up,” the brief flash of his powers to convince the authorities to take him instead.

It’s his mantra, his comfort, and he tells himself worth it with every heartbeat as they strap him to the chair.

* * *

They try the _toca_ first.

Aziraphale’s drowned before, during the Flood. He’d been trying to reason with the unicorns, to convince them that they had to get on the ark or they’d drown1. They’d still been arguing when the rain started falling, and by then it was too late.

Distantly, he knows this is not the same as drowning. He just… can’t breathe, that’s all. Nothing important. But something is overriding that, something deeply set within him, the part of him that forgets that discorporation isn’t the same thing as dying, not really. It’s fear, and he’s drowning in it, and he thrashes against the water filling his mouth and nose but it’s not enough, he’s not strong enough-

It stops.

“Have you made a pact with the Devil?” asks one official.

“Confess your sins,” says another, “lead us to others like you, and you will be forgiven.”

Aziraphale snorts. “The Devil is hardly the sort of person to make pacts in person. And I assure you, there are no others like me on Earth.”

They put the cloth over his face again and he closes his eyes, offering a prayer to Heaven. He does not cry out, during, and that is apparently enough to warrant more questioning.

* * *

They tie him to the rack next. _Worth it_ , he thinks, _worth it, worth it_ , even as his shoulders stretch and separate.

“Do your powers come by Satan?”

“Not in the slightest,” says Aziraphale. “These are entirely mine.”

They leave him there, stretched out, not bothering to untie him, and the cloth is over his face and he can’t breathe, Father, _please_ -

* * *

“Have you danced at the Devil’s sabbath?”

“I can’t dance at all,” says Aziraphale, truthfully.

He feels his hips and knees pull apart with a loud popping sound.

* * *

“Have you consorted with demons?” they ask. “Have you fraternized with an agent of Hell?”

He can’t answer that one, but he doesn’t know if it’s because his throat is too dry or hoarse from screaming or because it is true.

They don’t move him from the rack after that. It’s too much effort to carry him, limbs askew and refusing to obey him. The hot tongs and the pincers are easy compared to the agony in his dislocated joints, his aching lungs, but he can’t help but scream anyway.

* * *

They leave him in the cell after that, shackled to the wall, as if he could get away in this state. He tries to heal himself, but it’s like trying to carry water in a sieve, the pain keeping him from fully grasping his powers. At most he can manage to keep himself from being discorporated, but even that will run out eventually.

He entertains the idea that someone will come to save him. None of the villagers, certainly - even if they thought to go against the clerics, even if they had the will to, they would certainly be tried as witches themselves. And who else would care if he lives or dies?

 _Crowley_ , his mind reminds him. _Crowley would care._

 _Crowley is a demon_ , he replies. _The Arrangement doesn’t extend to rescues. And besides, he doesn’t even know I’m here._

 _He’ll come_ , says his mind, the part that holds belief without reason or proof. _He’ll come._

* * *

He doesn’t know how long he stays in the cell.

When the door to his cell opens again, he’s sure they’ve come to kill him. There’s a new cleric, dressed in different robes, and it takes his eyes a moment to focus.

It’s Crowley.

_Father. Father, thank you._

His attempt at speech comes out as a wheeze. Crowley shushes him absentmindedly.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he says, and Aziraphale’s heart leaps. “Just be quiet and I’ll try not to jostle you too badly.”

The way to Crowley’s bed is a blur of pain and movement, but he might as well be flying.

* * *

Someone’s talking to him.

“-you can heal yourself,” he’s saying, and Aziraphale shakes his head.

“Hard to… concentrate, I’m afraid.”

Crowley rains blessings on him, his powers, and the entire bloody church, and Aziraphale raises an eyebrow a twitch, not entirely sure whether or not the words coming out of Crowley’s mouth are being used as intended.2

“Alright,” says Crowley, “alright, angel. I can try, but it’s not like anything you’d do, I’m not built for that-”

“It’s perfectly alright,” says Aziraphale. Whatever Crowley does, he can trust him. Even if it hurts, it will be out of a desire to help him, not out of malice.

“It’s going to hurt.”

“Already does,” says Aziraphale, steeling himself.

He’s unconscious in minutes, and he sinks into the blackness gratefully.

* * *

He’s in the room but not in the room. It’s the same room, but they’ve come back for him, the torturers have found him even here, and they’re pressing ice and hot irons to his body in equal measure, and he can’t find Crowley, he’s supposed to come in, this is not how it’s supposed to happen.

“Have you consorted with demons?”

“Have you fraternized with an agent of Hell?”

They press a cup to his lips, and he knows without a doubt that it’s the _toca_ again: they’re not even bothering with the cloth this time. Surely this is his punishment for trusting Crowley; for relying on him to save him rather than the will of God; for calling him, in his soul, his friend. 

And Aziraphale breaks.

“I’m sorry,” he says, anything to make it stop, “yes, I did it,” and his words are running over into sobs. He doesn't know if he's saying any more, if he even can, but the cup is gone, so they must have gotten what they wanted from his confession. 

Distantly he feels warm arms around him that smell of sherry and rough wool and brimstone. He feels the clerics starting to melt away even as he keeps sobbing, the solid presence behind him keeping him from melting away with them.

“Hush, angel,” Crowley murmurs. “You’re sssafe. It’sss not real, hush...”

Slowly he sinks into sleep, and when he wakes again he's alone and doesn’t know how much was a dream.

* * *

Healing himself takes another six days, a very slow six days where he miracles each wound healed, one at a time. Crowley is out somewhere - probably drinking himself stupid - and Aziraphale’s infringed on his hospitality and the Arrangement for far too long anyway. He gets up on the morning of the seventh day, miracles his shirts clean and mended, and sets off. He’s not exactly sure where he’ll go - Egypt, maybe, or Persia, somewhere relaxing - but he can’t stay here for much longer. 

 _You have consorted with demons_ , whispers a deeper part of him. _You have fraternized with an agent of Hell._

Oddly, he doesn't feel guilty; at least, not for that. 

* * *

He spends some time in Samarkand, reads the poetry of Nur ad-Dīn Abd ar-Rahmān Jāmī, and even tries writing some poetry of his own3.

He doesn't see Crowley until the empire falls, where he's in the ranks of the new dynasty's troops.

"Of course you'd be here," says Aziraphale.

"I could say the same," says Crowley. "Are you-" He makes a vague gesture towards Aziraphale.

"Quite recovered, I assure you."

"Good. That's good." There is a pause. Then, "There's a lovely little spot around the corner that hasn't been sacked yet. Best arak I've had yet. We could go."

They do.

* * *

1 The failure to save the unicorns seems to be a rather embarrassing oversight on the part of Noah, but given that unicorns were generally bossy, stubborn, and given to long philosophical talks rather than practical action, it was no great loss, really.

2 They aren't. Hell takes full credit for the invention of sarcasm, and Crowley even got a little gold star on his commendation for it.

3 Since most of his efforts are, shall we say, less than satisfactory for one who is accustomed to reading great literature, the notion is short lived.

**Author's Note:**

> For "waterboarding" on my hurt/comfort bingo card.
> 
> The Spanish Inquisition was _probably_ not as brutally violent and torture-happy as some accounts suggest, but this is _my_ whump fic and I'll make it as violent as I want. Also I have decided to utterly ignore historical dates, so while this all takes place in _roughly_ the right time periods, it's far from a year-by-year account.


End file.
